One Love, One Lifetime
by DancingRaindrops
Summary: -"Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be this hard."- Snape/Lily one-shot, canon. For Emily.


_A/N: Happy birthday, Emily! :D As always, I'll save rambling for the end. ;) Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>One Love, One Lifetime<strong>

_come up to meet you, tell you i'm sorry_

_you don't know how lovely you are_

… … …

He's nine years old and he spends his days spying.

Specifically on the two girls who visit the nearby playground almost everyday.

The younger of the two swings determinedly, reaching new heights with every passing second. Her dark red hair is let loose to the wind, painting a magnificent picture of ferocity as she narrows her startlingly green eyes in concentration.

He watches intently as she summons her courage, a quick inhale before releasing her grip.

"Lily, don't do it!" he hears the other girl say, her warning a millisecond too late. His eyes never leave the girl flying through the air, carefree laughter ringing out before she gracefully lands on the asphalt.

Today, he tells himself for the fiftieth time. Today, he will reveal himself and tell her about the real world, the one she truly belongs to.

Petunia is irritated now, her mouth thinning into a stern line as she chastises her sister. He watches this familiar scolding with a diminished curiosity, before paying close attention to the way the flower opens and closes its petals when in the palm of the talented young witch.

"How do you do it?" asks Petunia, undisguised astonishment and longing in her voice.

He simply can't help himself when a condescending "It's obvious, isn't it?" slips out of his mouth. Stepping out from behind the bush, his keen eyes note the way both girls flinch, Petunia even going so far as to let out a high-pitched shriek and retreat immediately to the swings.

Almond-shaped eyes look back at him with surprise, but she holds her ground, unlike her sister. Under her brilliant gaze, he can feel warmth rising on his cheeks. Surely this seemed like a better plan yesterday.

"What's obvious?" She tilts her head slightly, taking in his assortment of mismatched and ill-fitting clothes with curiosity and blinking innocently.

He swallows anxiously, a shiver of anticipation running down his spine. Stepping in closer with a wary glance at her scowling sister, he says quietly, "I know what you are."

Her nose, lightly dotted with freckles, scrunches up in confusion. "What do you mean?"

His voice falls to a whisper, a thrilling secret about to be shared. He is positive, without a doubt, that this revelation will be but the beginning.

"You're...you're a witch."

... ... ...

_i had to find you, tell you i need you_

_tell you i set you apart_

… … …

He's eleven years old and he doesn't yet know that the next few moments will change his life irrevocably.

"Evans, Lily!" She steps forward with trembling legs, looking as scared as he's trying not to feel.

An ancient wizarding hat is placed atop her head, barely giving him time to register the breathless look of wonder on her face before it cries out, "GRYFFINDOR!"

A soft groan escapes him instinctively, a sinking feeling beginning to set in.

She glances back at him, the corners of her mouth turned upward but with a distinctive melancholy to them.

Surely she isn't _that_type. There must be some mistake. She's a Slytherin, like him. She belongs with him, not in the same House as that wretched boy from the train.

His spirits are lifted somewhat when she decidedly turns her back on the boy, folding her arms petulantly.

She doesn't belong there. She's _his_best friend.

"Snape, Severus!" is called abruptly, the other students having been Sorted in what feels like hardly any time.

He walks up to the stool, sensing the supercilious eyes of every student in the Great Hall, each one judging whether or not he would be a worthy addition to their House.

"SLYTHERIN!" cries the hat, almost before he realizes that it's on his head. He scrambles off the stool and heads toward the Slytherin table immediately, filled with momentary joy.

Just before he reaches them, he looks back over his shoulder.

She sits on the other side of the Great Hall, her hands still clapping determinedly, green eyes smiling at him, albeit with a more subdued expression than usual.

He nods back at her, a moment of understanding passing between them before he sits at the end of the Slytherin table.

An older student with a gleaming prefect badge welcomes him heartily, the friendliest gesture from a stranger that he's ever received.

This is where he's meant to be.

... ... ...

_tell me your secrets and ask me your questions_

_oh, let's go back to the start_

… … …

He's fourteen years old and he worries that he's beginning to lose her.

She tosses her fiery hair with irritation, a sure sign of her annoyance both with him and their current argument over the disgusting Marauders, of all people.

Gryffindors ruin everything.

"You're being really ungrateful," she says hotly, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "I heard what happened the other night. You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and James Potter saved you from whatever's down there – "

"_Saved?_!" He's affronted by the very idea of it, simmering resentment spilling out of him. She flinches for a moment as she leans against the cool stone pillar of the courtyard, surprised by this sudden outburst.

"_Saved?_" he repeats incredulously, desperately wanting to erase the pity she seems to look upon him with. "You think he was playing the hero? He was saving his neck and his friends' too! You're not going to – I won't let you – "

He stops short, already knowing he's said the wrong thing.

"_Let _me? _Let _me?" Sure enough, her bright green eyes narrow, that spark within her igniting with anger. He swallows tightly, trying to find the words to make everything right again.

"I didn't mean – I just don't want to see you made a fool of – " The wretched news that's been sitting in his stomach for the past week wells up inside of him, ready to burst. "He fancies you, James Potter fancies you!"

Her eyebrows arch at this, though he can't tell if it's due to genuine surprise or mild amusement at his sputtering.

"And he's not - " he begins again, trying to justify it to the both of them, " - everyone thinks - big Quidditch hero - "

"I know James Potter's an arrogant toerag." Her emerald eyes flash with something he can't name, a brief flicker of emotion. "I don't need you to tell me that."

A wave of relief sweeps through him, his fears erasing themselves. He still has her, one of the few things he cares about possessing. She won't abandon him. Potter can't have it all.

" - Sev. I don't understand how you can be friends with them," she finishes, which he assumes must be regarding his Slytherin friends.

"You will always be my best friend," he says quietly as they begin walking again, from the courtyard into a corridor toward their next class.

She smiles up at him warmly, a friendly gesture that brightens his mood even further. "I'm glad, Sev."

… … …

_running in circles, coming up tails_

_heads on a science apart_

… … …

He's sixteen years old and he feels more humiliated than ever before.

When she storms onto the scene, her eyes flashing and temper flaring, everything changes.

Potter reverts to his even more pigheaded self, evidently in an effort to impress her somehow. He could strangle him if he wasn't currently as rigid as a board, the victim of yet another public prank.

"LEAVE HIM ALONE!" she yells furiously, pulling her wand out and pointing it at the two ringleaders of the Marauders.

"Ah, Evans, don't make me hex you." Potter almost sounds sincere, as though this method of what he can only assume must be flirting will actually come to fruition.

"Take the curse off him, then!" She doesn't budge, her ire evidently meaning more to Potter than anything else.

A simmering anger boils inside him, the taunts and hexes sending him over the edge for the last time. And to have _her_ save him, to have _her_see him so utterly humiliated...

He finds himself suddenly set free, Potter muttering the countercurse reluctantly at her command.

"There you go. You're lucky Evans was here, Snivellus - "

"I don't need help from filthy little Mudblooods like her!" he retorts sharply, the words firing out of his mouth before he can register their meaning.

She looks at him with those almond-shaped eyes, blinking once. "Fine," she replies with an indifferent wintriness. "I won't bother in the future."

Wait, he wants to say, I didn't mean it. But it's already too late, and people are staring at him like he's a freak who needs to be shunned. He can't do it, not now. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

"And I'd wash my pants if I were you, _Snivellus_." The cruel nickname coming from her is fifty times worse. Her defiant posture reveals just how much he has wounded her, though surely not as much pain as he feels at this very moment.

Everything is falling apart rapidly before his eyes.

She turns away from him, shouting at Potter once more, but he's beyond caring about that anymore. He catches the glimpse of tears building, the barely perceptible trembling of her chin, the slight quaver in her voice as she sends insults flying.

He's messed up. And this time, he doesn't know if he'll be able to fix it.

… … …

_nobody said it was easy_

_it's such a shame for us to part_

… … …

He's sixteen years old and he's never wished more fervently that he could turn back time.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out the second she steps through the portrait hole, her eyes already narrowed and arms folded.

"I'm not interested," she replies coolly, her frosty demeanor contrasting so vividly with her usually compassionate personality. Her words sting, the lack of a response making him crave her forgiveness even more.

"I'm sorry!" He repeats it with a greater sense of urgency, moving imperceptibly closer as he does so.

She looks at him disdainfully, an expression he's never seen her direct at him before. "Save your breath." The curtness of her tone echoes slightly along the dark corridor, a few murmurs emanating from the framed portraits along the walls.

"I only came out here because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here," she continues, lifting her chin as though to challenge the veracity of this statement.

"I was," he replies quickly, growing ever more desperate. "I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just - "

"Slipped out?" It sounds for a moment as though she's mocking him, and it pains him physically to realize that she no longer seems to understand him.

Her beautiful eyes hold no kindness in them as her icy mask cracks to reveal her ire. "It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends - "

She pauses for a moment, as though looking for an interruption. He stands frozen, unable to process all of the pent-up frustration being hurled at him.

"You see, you don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?" Her breathing is faster now, the adrenaline tinging her pale cheeks with color.

Though he opens his mouth to speak, there is nothing for him to say. None of it can truthfully be denied. Yet surely, surely there must be some kind of misunderstanding. She can't truly think...

"I can't pretend anymore. You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine," she says with a touch of finality in her voice, that Gryffindor pride drawing her upright and distant once more.

"No - " He reaches out to her, aching for her approval once more. "Listen, I didn't mean - "

" - to call me Mudblood?" A humorless smile graces her lips as she completes his sentence. "But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?"

He futilely attempts to put it into words, to somehow express the place she holds in his heart, to take back everything that has happened between them since they were separated by Houses and rivalry, popularity and expectations.

She gives him a contemptuous look before turning away and disappearing back into the Gryffindor common room, her dressing gown fluttering behind her. He's left to grasp at nothing, his protests dying as she rejects his apology one final time.

She doesn't look back.

… … …

_nobody said it was easy_

_no one ever said it would be this hard_

_oh, take me back to the start_

… … …

He's seventeen years old and he's trying to figure out how many faces people have.

He watches her across the Great Hall, grinning brightly at a joke one of her friends must have told her.

Potter is next to her, twirling one of her loose ringlets around his index finger with a ridiculous grin spreading across his face.

He clenches his fist around his fork, willing himself not to whip out his wand and curse the bastard in front of everyone.

To his left, Avery follows his line of sight and lopsidedly grimaces at the sickening view as well. "Disgusting, isn't it?"

He makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, trying not to let his bitter jealousy show.

"Only a matter of time before a Potter turned blood traitor," remarks Avery, calmly sipping his pumpkin juice. "Shame, really."

"At least there's reason," Mulciber adds from across the table, looking up from his filled breakfast plate. "If her blood wasn't so filthy, Evans wouldn't be half bad."

He grinds his teeth together inwardly, trying to maintain an inscrutable expression in the presence of his friends. No one remembers how things used to be. He scarcely can himself.

"Head Boy and Head Girl," he remarks coldly, a hint of malice edging his voice. "How original."

"They aren't together yet," reminds Avery, spearing a sausage with his fork. "Evans still has him running circles around her."

"Good," he replies automatically, unable to help himself. Both Slytherins look up at him, a curious light gleaming in their eyes.

"Potter deserves to be strung along." The words slide out of his mouth easily, no lies being told. "The blood traitor," he adds, just for good measure.

Mulciber and Avery nod their approval, attention turning back to their food and other more intriguing topics of conversation. Potter grins wickedly over at the Gryffindor table, one hand ruffling his hair in that irritating way of his.

Worst of all, she smiles back at him, her affection clear in the way she lightly whacks his arm.

_James Potter's an arrogant toerag._

He excuses himself and leaves the Slytherin table abruptly, unable to watch the happy scene of perfection unfold any longer. No one sees the hatred rising in his eyes.

… … …

_i was just guessing at numbers and figures_

_pulling the puzzles apart_

… … …

He's eighteen years old and the Dark Mark is branded on his left arm.

There's a sense of belonging within the Death Eaters, a silent understanding that darkness and curses are second nature, that no one cares about OWLs or childish frivolities anymore.

Here, there is a purpose. There is a master. There is order.

"Tonight," begins the Dark Lord, his silky voice issuing commands to the circle of hooded followers surrounding him, "we must discover the whereabouts of the Order of the Phoenix."

A quiet rustle of movement catches his attention, many masks turning to face the source.

"My Lord…" Malfoy's unmistakably slippery voice says from behind a mask, "Members of the Order reveal themselves to us. Surely we could – "

"They will all be together tonight," interrupts the Dark Lord, his tone merciless. "There is to be a wedding, one that they could not afford to miss."

He instinctively reaches for the wand in his robes, fingers gripping the polished wood firmly. _Don't. Please don't._

"Whose wedding, my Lord?" He closes his eyes at this question, determined not to show any reaction to the answer that must be coming.

"Potter and the Mudblood," replies the Dark Lord in a detached manner, twirling his yew wand between his fingers. "The resistance will be weak tonight."

He inhales sharply, willing his body not to move. She means nothing now. Mrs. James _Potter_, he thinks to himself spitefully, a Mudblood who matters little when he is clearly destined for greatness among the ranks of the Death Eaters.

"Tonight, you must not fail me."

He nods curtly, the other pointed hoods following suit. Without another word, they vanish one by one, each Disapparating into the mist.

He didn't receive an invitation to the wedding. No lavishly embellished parchment with loopy script with their names coupled, no envelope bearing his name in her familiar handwriting.

_Best friends._

… … …

_questions of science, science and progress_

_do not speak as loud as my heart_

… … …

He's twenty years old and there are no words to express his disbelief.

"My Lord?"

"Potter, Severus, Potter. It must be…yes, without a doubt. It will be difficult to accomplish, yes, but it shall be done. And the two meddlesome fools gone with the child!" The Dark Lord lets out a menacing laugh, triumphant with the news of the prophecy.

He is stunned into silence, her gorgeous laugh ringing in his ears.

No. He cannot lose her.

"But my Lord, surely there is another. The – the Longbottoms, perhaps, or – "

"It must be the Potter boy," repeats his master calmly, a plan already forming in his brilliantly twisted mind. "We will need time, of course, and spies. This is valuable information, Severus, very valuable indeed…"

She's going to die. And it will surely be his fault.

"My Lord, if you could spare the – " he swallows, forcing out the word once more, " – the Mudblood…it would please me greatly to have her in my possession…"

The Dark Lord pauses for a moment, considering this. "Perhaps. I will think it over. In the meantime, Severus, I will need eyes in the Order of the Phoenix."

"I shall do it," he volunteers immediately, already sensing his next course of action. She must not die. "As soon as possible, my Lord."

"Go, then." He is dismissed with the wave of an imperious hand. "Report to me when I call…"

"Of course, my Lord," he replies automatically, bowing in reverence with his heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through him. She cannot die.

The years of bitterness, the end of their friendship…it matters little now in the face of her impending doom. He still cares for her, he realizes with a jolt. He cannot bear the thought of her being gone.

His black robes swirl around him, whisking him into the velvety darkness of the night. He must see Dumbledore.

… … …

_but tell me you love me, come back and haunt me_

_oh, and i rush to the start_

… … …

He's twenty-one years old and it feels like a lifetime since he first beheld her.

He had never seen anything so beautiful before in his life.

And he never will again.

An unrecognizable sound escapes him, one of raw pain and heartbreak, anguish over a love that he had buried deep within himself, only to find it painfully torn from him.

"I wish…I wish _I _were dead..." He murmurs, almost to himself. His breathing is labored, each word requiring great quantities of effort.

Dumbledore regards him with little sympathy, ceasing to pace for a moment as he looks down at him with something akin to disgust.

"And what use would that be to anyone?" Dumbledore pauses, his voice softening. "If you loved Lily Evans, if you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear."

If he loved her. If he loves her. If it's for _her._

"What – what do you mean?" he manages to get out, feeling the weight of a thousand sorrows upon his shoulders.

"You know how and why she died. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily's son."

"He does not need protection," he replies wearily, the child of James Potter seemingly of little consequence now. "The Dark Lord has gone – "

"The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does," states Dumbledore calmly, that infuriatingly unshakable air of wisdom still hanging about him. Why could he not save her, for all his grand plans and intelligence?

Why could _he _not save her?

"Very well," he says at last, exhaling slowly with his head still hanging. "Very well. But never – never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear…especially Potter's son…I want your word!" He can feel himself shaking ever so slightly, tremors running through him like the aftershocks of a violent earthquake.

"My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?" A troubled sigh leaves the elder wizard, his white beard and half-moon glasses somehow disapproving. "If you insist…"

A shudder comes over him, grief threatening to swallow him whole once more. He closes his eyes to the tragedies of the world, the injustice of it all, the horrific nature of life itself.

"Thank you," he whispers brokenly.

… … …

_running in circles, chasing our tails_

_coming back as we are_

… … …

He's thirty-one years old and they still haven't stopped.

Dark red hair, strands of gold weaving in and out. Freckles lightly dotting her nose, innocence and mischief all at once. Gorgeous eyes that he can't even begin to do justice to with words.

He wakes up every morning with flickers of dreams still swirling in his head.

Sometimes she seems so real that he could swear she's lying in bed next to him, as passionately alive as she ever was.

At other times she is nothing more than a ghost to him, a specter that wanders in and out of his sight, always a whisper away and never able to be touched.

He tries to tell himself that one day, he will forget her.

With time, surely, the feelings will fade. The memories will begin to vanish. And slowly, slowly, she will be erased entirely.

He's mastered the art of lying.

But he knows his own tricks, and the dreams never cease.

Two days later, her son comes to Hogwarts.

_He has her eyes, precisely her eyes._

When the child looks at him, he's mesmerized for a second, the memories never entirely doing justice like this resurrection can.

The boy furrows his eyebrows in confusion, the messy hair and crooked glasses conjuring his other parent to life, the arrogance and cockiness surely already born within him and fueled by the fame he has experienced on this day alone.

He meets his gaze coldly, determined to keep him at a distance.

The boy is not her. But for her, he will keep him safe.

… … …

_nobody said it was easy_

_oh, it's such a shame for us to part_

… … …

He's thirty-six years old and his life has been wasted.

The sole purpose he has served following her death has been for naught. It is this news, more than anything, that shocks him.

"You have kept him alive so that he can die at the right moment?" His voice sounds eerily calm to his own ears, the futility of it all far more disheartening than he would have imagined.

"Don't be shocked, Severus." Dumbledore gives him that wretched look, the knowingly superior one that has orchestrated every moment of his life since he heard the prophecy, so long ago. "How many men and women have you watched die?"

Dumbledore, the savior. Dumbledore, the noble and heroic headmaster. Dumbledore, who fights for the greater good.

"Lately, only those whom I could not save," he replies bitterly, looking down and remembering the flashes of green light, the expressions of shock, the haunted feeling that he carries inside. And for what? "You have used me."

"Meaning?"

He strides closer to Dumbledore, feeling ready to strike him with anger. "I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter's son safe." Her name lingers in his mouth, the syllables rolling off his tongue with a halting familiarity. "Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter – "

"But this is touching, Severus." Dumbledore peers at him with wise eyes, wrinkles forming at the corners. "Have you grown to care for the boy, after all?"

"For _him?_" He pulls out his wand indignantly, the fire in his heart still raging. _You're the best, Sev. _A grin directed solely at him, her hand brushing against his absentmindedly. "_Expecto Patronum!_"

He watches as the silver doe leaps gracefully across the room, the breathtaking beauty of it catching in his throat. Dumbledore turns back to face him, his expression filled with sorrow and tinged with wonder.

"After all this time?"

He blinks away a hint of a tear, swallowing tightly.

"Always."

… … …

_nobody said it was easy_

_no one ever said it would be so hard_

… … …

He's thirty-eight years old and he's about to die.

He lies slumped on the floor, his body trembling with the loss of so much blood.

The pain in his neck is almost unbearable, the fangs of the snake piercing in the most fatal position possible.

With great concentration, he manages to lift his hand to his throat, pulling his stiff black collar close to keep the gushing red at bay.

The boy appears out of nowhere, pulling off his Invisibility Cloak and crouching close.

His green eyes hold vast amounts of hatred mixed with pity, a combination that seems unbearable at this point. And the message...Dumbledore's message.

He reaches out to the boy, grasping his robes feverishly.

A noise issues from his throat, a strangled cry of desperation that he can scarcely recognize as his own.

"Take...it...take...it..." The memories pour out of him without any effort, the love and the laughter morphing into darkness and death. His tragic life is coming to an even less admirable death, murdered on the edge of battle at the hands of his former master.

The flask in the boy's hands has become filled, the silvery substance captured and his memories preserved. He has achieved what he set out to do. There is nothing more he can do to protect her son.

His fist unclenches from the boy's robes, his entire body beginning to feel detached from his being.

"Look...at...me..." he breathes, yearning for one last look into her startlingly brilliant eyes, that shape and color unmatched by anything he has seen in this world.

As he fades, her eyes stay locked to his, jet-black hair morphing into dark red, a thin mouth giving way to a warm smile.

_Lily_, he tries to say, darkness beginning to cloak his vision and his strength rapidly leaving him. _I love you._

… … …

_i'm going back to the start._

* * *

><p><em>AN: And...there you have it. ;P So as always, I tried to do your favorite pairing a little justice, Emily! ;) I would have tried to make it a happy ending, but I think one of the most touching aspects of Snape's love is that it was unrequited and yet still so devoted. So I had to keep him pining instead, LOL ;D_

_As you can tell, I took many scenes from the series itself. I tried not to copy them directly, but the dialogue is the same and I used a few of JKR's phrases because sometimes, there's no better way to put something than the original. XP Hopefully you didn't feel like you were simply re-reading The Prince's Tale; or rather, if you did, hopefully you felt like it was the original and not a stupid knock-off that was a waste of your time!_

_The song is "The Scientist" by Coldplay, which I thought fit the story rather well. XD And the title is from the Phantom of the Opera, which doesn't really match the story, but I thought the phrase summed up Snape perfectly._

_I'm finishing this up in the middle of the night as we speak, so hopefully there aren't too many errors! Hope you smiled at this rubbish at the very least :) And please do leave a review with any feedback! Thank you. :D_


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